ha(r)mony
by slire
Summary: Zuko just wants to see the scar under his skin; underneath his face [DARK]


**Disclaimer:** Avatar: The Last Airbender © Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko,

**A/N:** The result of listening to Throbbing Gristle.

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**ha(r)mony**

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_"Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars"_

— Khalil Gibran

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"Let me change the bandages."

_No_.

"Please, Prince Zuko, if I don't it'll rot and fester."

_No. _

"I strongly—"

The metal doors slam shut with a burst of hot air. The noise echoes (like a scream) through the halls of the ship, bouncing off the walls. It is night, and the air is hot and salt.

Healer Ju takes a step back, turning to Iroh. He had been serving under the Dragon of the West for a decade, renowned for his honest—if not a bit harsh—tongue and his vast knowledge of healing herbs. He shakes his head. Ju wasn't an emotional man. But the destruction of the fire prince unnerves him, especially as the boy won't let anyone see his injuries. He despises seeing a healthy young boy reduced to... to...

Dead meat.

("Dead eyes," the cook had muttered when they first brought him here.)

"Thank you," Iroh said, dismissing the medic. He inhales. He finds himself wishing that Zuko had angry like a mourning child out to be—not this hollow, fleshy creature that scurries through the ship at night stealing ancient, forbidden scrolls.

Iroh knows some scars goes deeper than the skin.

He waits an hour before visiting his nephew. He uses the time to mediate and brew tea; making the one that includes of cooked balls of tapioca and raw milk. He opens the door.

The stink hits him immediately.

Blood, sweat and pus. It is veiled underneath the sweet smoke from burning spices, but the veil only maximises the difference, making the combination sickly. There are six different incense burners, each placed around the matt the inhibitor resides on. The reddish ends are the only sources of light. The quarters are thick with smoke.

The floor is packed with yellowing paper, and the banishment letter lies in front of the matt like an introduction.

The lump on the matt does not move. The only indication that Zuko is alive is the slow, steady vibration. He hides underneath quilts, refusing food or help. His nightly errands are decreasing, but the bad dreams have done a comeback, if the cries tell the truth.

He has not left the room in three days. The food is untouched. Plates with salmon, rotting. The iron bowls with wheat and dry berries. The neatly cut oranges have dried out. Thank the spirits that the water mug is empty.

(_"A fire child should not despair like this," _Ju had said. _"Fire must not be still or it'll be extinguished."_)

Iroh takes a deep breath. He sets the tray on front of him, kneeling, hands curled on his knees.

"When you were little, you'd often ask for this tea. Azula thought it too sweet, and scolded you. But the two of us would sneak into the calligraphy backroom at dawn and drink it there. The sunset would paint the mountains golden. You preferred honey milk tea to ku ding tea with holly and privet leaves. You were always a very sweet child. Gentle."

Zuko shifts. He mumbles something.

"What?"

"...a failure. Always a failure."

"That is not true, Prince Zuko. You excelled at many arts as a child."

"None of which mattered." It lacks the rage the words suggest. He speaks in a dead panned, hollow kind of way, as if repeating lines from an old war lost. Iroh dares not correct him. This is the longest he has spoken in months; Iroh will wait to hear what he has to say. "Do you know about the Gray Forest, Uncle? The Miasma mythology? Ban Hi and the Black Star assassins that carried on his legacy?"

"Of course," Iroh says seriously. "The secrets surrounding those subjects are dangerous. Ban Hi, for an example, was condemned to death because of the mass poisoning he administrated as a city doctor. Dangerous subjects, young prince."

"I have studied them for months, now, Uncle. No matter the results of their thoughts the core idea remains."

"And what is the core idea, nephew?"

"You can only find the self through suffering. And have I not suffered enough, Uncle?"

The smell of rot is near unbearable. Iroh only bears it because of his nephew. He hasn't smelt anything like it since war; and Zuko is not war, just a scarred, delusional child.

What exactly is hiding underneath those blankets?

"You have suffered, but you are very young—"

"Yes. Yes, I came to the same conclusion. I wasn't complete. Only half. I hadn't suffered enough."

Cold dread dawns on Iroh.

"Did you know, Uncle, that like water bending, you can concentrate and bring the heat to a certain point? To your fingertips? But we both know fire has no healing abilities—it brings only destruction. Suffering."

The blankets shuffle to the side, revealing Zuko's face.

Tea spills over the floor.

"I am even."


End file.
